


What Feels True

by boulderuphill



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, too much plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulderuphill/pseuds/boulderuphill
Summary: “So, you just need a bigger sample?”“I guess so.”“But you’re too scrawny to get it yourself?” Jason grins, already mentally remapping the night’s route to bring him past the docks.“If that makes you feel better about getting it for me.” Tim makes it sound so obvious, like it’s the only way this conversation could have ended, and it sends a shiver down Jason’s spine.+Jason teams up with the Bats to investigate an increase in violent crimes and ends up working with Tim.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 61
Kudos: 379





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly cant believe this story is finally done. i started it back in june with the intention of finishing it for the jaytim week, but that obviously did not happen. I've never written anything even remotely this long, so please enjoy it. 
> 
> It's all finished, so I'll post one chapter every week. Adding the rating now, even though it isn't applicable to the first chapters.
> 
> In terms of where it places in relation to canon i imagine it kind of a couple of years after Morrisons batman & robin run, so Tim is in his early twenties. But yeah its a hodge podge of all canon/fanon i find intriguing so its by no means consistent.

Darkness lies heavy over Gotham City, and Jason is supposed to be well beyond the Narrows by now. On a normal night he’s easily able to cover his patrol route in two hours, leaving him an hour or so to flex depending on how Crystal and her girls are doing, or whether some particular asshole needs extra attention. Yet, this is the third time this week he’s late, still stuck in the Bowery correcting men that look like they haven’t set a foot outside of the business district before tonight.  
“Please, let me go,” one of them pleads with his eyes brimming with tears and arms reaching up to protect his head.

When Jason’s punch hits him in the stomach he lets out a sharp exhale, and his cry mixes with a gurgle when blood wells out of his mouth. Like a sack of flour, he hits the ground before Jason’s feet and drops his knife. Even through the leather gloves, Jason’s fingers pulsate from the impact of the punch, and the man should thank his lucky star he isn’t worth the ammo, or this might have ended very differently.

If Jason skips looking into the supposed rowdy gang of kids causing trouble at the university he might be able to catch up on some lost time by cutting across the district rather than going around it. With enough vigilantes scouting the streets of Gotham by night to start a city of their own, it doesn’t seem far fetched that someone else will take care of it. And allowing some kids to break a few windows seems like a small price to pay to finish his round before sunrise.

“Busy night?” Startled by the voice behind him, he turns around and pulls out his gun in one motion. On the other side of the barrel stands Dick Grayson, all straight posture and perfect definition, and when the flourescent lights of the storefronts hits the Nightwing suit, the blue looks even more radiant.

“Busy enough,” Jason answers through gritted teeth and lowers the gun. Their patrols don’t usually overlap, seeing as Dick spends most of his time in Blüdhaven, which means that if he’s here, it’s for a reason.

“We figured you might be.” _We_. Red lights immediately start flashing. Dick is smiling, warm and friendly with his arms resting leisurely along his sides, and his escrima sticks safely tucked onto his back. For a moment neither of them say anything, and the way Dick is just standing there like an idiot reminds Jason of exactly why he’s better off on his own.

“What do you want?” He doesn’t want to play this game, if Dick wants something from him he’s going to have to say it straight, without any unnecessary preamble.

“Your help,” Dick says it as if it wasn’t already obvious, and Jason remains quiet. “This thing,” Dick gestures against the man on the ground, “it’s not just here. The whole city’s down with something, and we’re gonna need all hands on deck to cover enough ground.” When Dick puts it like that, he makes them sound like some kind of crew, like they aren’t just a bunch of outsiders loosely tied together by the Bat brand. And Jason is probably the loosest tied of them all, dangling by a single, worn out thread threatening to burst at any moment.

“Isn’t the Big Guy going to get mad at you for inviting me?”

Dick’s brow furrows, breaking up his perfect features. “You know he sent me,” he says, and Jason wants to knock himself out for thinking that Dick would ever do anything other than run Bruce’s errands.

“Too busy to ask me himself? Fuck off.” The leather of Jason’s jacket squeals when he turns around to heads towards his motorcycle.

The sound of armoured shoes against the concrete behind him tells him that Dick is following suit. “Come on, you know what he’s like,” Dick says, as if that is somehow supposed to make Jason more inclined to agree rather than piss him off further.

“And he knows what I’m like. Funny how that works, right?” Jason straddles the bike, but he doesn’t start it yet. It’s as if something is keeping him there, something about the two of them talking like this, without weapons between them, that is reminiscent of what he chose to walk away from.

“We all miss you,” Dick holds his hand out and a small USB-drive dangles from his finger.

“Don’t bullshit me.” There isn’t a single person that misses Jason, he knows that much, but still he takes it. “I’ll look at it. No promises.”

That seems to be enough, and Dick’s face is firm as he takes a step back to allow Jason free passage. Unceremoniously, Jason rolls past him and speeds up, leaving Dick behind him in the dust.

Back at his safehouse, Jason’s laptop whirrs in protest when he inserts the USB-drive and he gives it a couple of pats in a half-hearted attempt to make it quiet down. His efforts are wasted, and the screen flickers as it displays the contents, the corner of it obscured by a black spot emitting from a small crack.  
What Dick has handed him looks like a standard case file, notable only because of how scarce it is. Most of the folders are empty, or contain single files that make little sense out of context, and for a moment the whole thing feels like a joke. Was this just a test? Maybe they didn’t think he would ever take the drive, or perhaps one of the images is actually a virus already copying his hard drive.  
But then he finds the Background file, nestled at the heart of the folder structure, and it’s considerably more meaty than the other documents. While the rest of the documents carry Nightwing’s signature, haphazardly thrown onto the end of them, this one has Red Robin in neat writing next to the date stamp. Jason grimaces, just figures that his replacement would excel in the useless art of documentation. No wonder he’s Bruce’s favourite.

Eyeing through the information tells him that he isn’t the only one who’s been having trouble. Apparently even the great Tim Drake, supposedly the world’s second greatest detective, is at a loss for why violent assaults have suddenly skyrocketed. The culprits are a constant flow of new names and faces, neither previously known, that have suddenly taken to committing crimes with a surprising vigor. A bank employee running rampant with a shotgun, a teacher attacking her hairdresser and a bunch of teens beating each other bloody. The list goes on, and the dates accompanying each entry makes it look like it’s been continuously updated.  
Jason shuts the laptop with a groan. Outside, the wind is howling, but he still forces himself out onto the small balcony clutching a fresh pack of cigarettes. If this thing isn’t just an isolated event, and if it’s picking up momentum, which the file seems to suggest, he might not have as much of a choice as he previously thought. The lighter flickers when he drags his thumb along it, and he keeps the cigarette between his teeth as he tries to shield the flame with his palm for long enough to light it.  
“Fuck,” he mumbles through gritted teeth, and he isn’t sure if it’s directed towards the uncooperative lighter, the cold stroking his naked arms, or towards himself for even considering Dick’s offer.

*

Despite the familiar humidity and the buzzing from the main computer, the cave doesn’t feel like home anymore. The years Jason spent in the Manor feel further away than ever, like it was actually someone else who slid down the railings of the stairs every morning and huddled in the library during rainy weekends. But even so, the tips of his fingers itch with the memory of tugging on the tails of Alfred’s suit, and he forcibly has to push the memories aside before they distract him from the work he’s there to do.

When it was just the three of them, the cave felt different. It had been like a big secret they all shared, where every good night started and every bad night ended. Now it’s crowded, every piece of the floor occupied by someone Jason doesn’t fully know, and in the middle of it all stands Bruce. He’s huddled over the large screen of the main computer and discussing something very serious with Tim, and the only thing he looks is old. Not just because of the greying tussles of hair that grace his temples, but also the way he carries himself, as if the weight of trying to balance the fate of the city on his shoulders is starting to catch up with him. For some reason it’s even more obvious next to Tim, who looks like the spitting image of Bruce in his youth. While the two of them don’t share a face, not like Bruce and Damian do, the family resemblance is in the bags beneath their eyes, and the subtle traces of stress always colouring their expressions.

“Feels good to be back?” Dick’s hand lands on Jason’s back, and Jason tenses at the touch. Maybe Dick feels it too, because the hand drops as quickly as it appeared, but when Jason turns to look at him, he doesn’t seem discouraged. He’s just wearing his usual smile, the blue in his suit making him stand out among the sea of black and red that surrounds them.

“I’m not back,” Jason says, as if saying it will make it so, and Dick nods when he settles by Jason’s side, looking out over the gathering with poorly concealed fondness.

“Well, we’re happy to have you here.” While it might be untrue, and is most definitely an attempt to lull Jason into a false sense of comfort, Dick says it with the same genuine care as he says everything.

“Careful, Todd,” Damian appears behind Dick with the hood of his cape pulled up, a dramatic shadow being cast across his Bruce-like features, “you may have swayed father to accept your presence, but be aware that I am watching you closely.”  
Nothing about Damian’s tone or expression suggests that he’s joking, but Dick still bursts into a fond laughter and let’s his hand rest on Damian’s shoulder. While he has grown quite a bit since Jason last saw him, and it’s probably only a matter of time before he outgrows Tim, Damian’s limbs still seem a little too long for the rest of his body, and he’s lanky in a way that only teenagers are. It makes it harder to take his threat seriously, and maybe that’s why Dick is laughing, even if Jason knows that underestimating Damian might be the last mistake he ever makes.

“Nightwing, Robin, the two of you will operate on the ground tonight.” It’s Batman, not Bruce, who addresses the room, which immediately falls silent. His voice is level, and his head held high, but his five o’clock shadow tells Jason that he might not be as much in control as he tries to appear.

“Red Hood,” the sound of his name coming out of Bruce’s mouth makes him straighten his back, like a fucking dog, “and Red Robin, the two of you will be stationed on Outpost Five, ready to respond if they require assistance.”  
The silence settles again, and Jason waits for Tim to object to the cruel joke of pairing the two of them up for the night. But he doesn’t. He just nods, eyes firmly on Bruce in an angle that makes it impossible for Jason to establish contact with them.

“Really? We’re the backup?” Jason’s words echo against the cave walls, and suddenly all eyes are on him. “Fuck off, don’t waste my time with this.” Compared to Bruce’s authoritative voice, his own sounds shrill, making him grit his teeth in an effort not to shrink beneath the countless eyes.

Next to him, Dick’s smile has faltered. “Jay, come on,” he says, as if Jason is somehow the one being difficult.

“What? You won’t need backup; It’s a fucking scouting mission.” If Dick and Damian get themselves killed collecting intel from some no-name and his friends, they deserve death.

“You know safety has to come first. We’re going in blind, remember? Oracle can only help so much.” Dick sounds like he’s speaking to a disobedient child, like Jason is just another kid he has been tasked by Bruce to babysit.

“Then why don’t all of us-,” Jason doesn’t get further before Bruce interrupts him.

“That’s enough.” The air in the cave lies heavy, and Jason has to make a conscious effort to breathe when Bruce’s eyes are on him. He isn’t fifteen anymore. He isn’t Robin. Still, it’s as if the anger drains from him like he has been doused in cold water, and the fire in the pit of his stomach shrivels up. With his arms folded over his chest, he groans in a final act of defiance and mouths “whatever,” to whoever is still staring at him.

If Bruce cares, he doesn’t show it. Instead he turns to Tim, who has been standing silent during the exchange. “Red Robin, report to me when you’re set up,” he says, and Tim nods again. He’s a bit like those drinking birds, the way he’s always dipping his head up and down in silence. It makes his too long hair bounce a little before it settles on his shoulders, where his pulled down cowl is resting. Maybe the reason for that atrocious cowl is to keep his hair out of his face, like how old women at the public pool wear bathcaps.  
Jason own hair is a mess of fiery red, setting him apart from Bruce and Dick and Tim and Damian and Cass and hopefully it’s enough to remind everyone in the cave that they aren’t family. He isn’t like them.

“Come on then, Replacement,” he says and shoves against Tim’s shoulder on his way out. It earns him an eye roll, making the whites of Tim’s eyes contrast the straying strands of his dark hair that have settled along the bridge of his nose. It’s different from Bruce’s stoic expression and Dick’s pitying eyes, and right now different can only be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am honestly so excited to share this with you guys i really hope you like it ;;;;;


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the love you guys gave me on the first chapter ;;;

Being able to finally put some distance between himself and the Cave feels good. Enough so that it makes the prospect of spending the rest of the night with Tim seem like less of a nightmare, and more of a somewhat pleasant alternative. 

Outpost Five turns out to be one of the many safehouses Bruce has established across the city, with large windows facing the Docks and at least three alternate escape routes. Four, if you count the option of climbing from the balcony into the neighbouring apartment. The air inside is thick with dust, the floorboards squeaking as they enter, and Jason even has to give the door an extra shove to close it behind them.

“Red Robin and Red Hood reporting,” Tim says, and his voice echoes in Jason’s earpiece. It’s like there are two of him, both equally concerned with playing their part in this pretend mission. 

“Gotcha, good job,” Dick answers without delay, and it seems to cause a small twitch in the corner of Tim’s mouth, making it curl into something that actually resembles a smile. Not that it lasts long, interrupted by Damian’s voice cutting through the static with it’s usual sharpness.

“Yes, truly remarkable work. If you keep this up, perhaps father will consider allowing the two of you out into the field next time.” Only because Jason is already looking at Tim, he notices the way his lips immediately pull back, baring his perfectly white teeth as if he is about to say something vile. But Dick is faster, lacing his words with the same cheerfulness that he was so adamant about displaying during the briefing. “Stay alert, guys. We’ll call on you if we need anything.”

Two small click follow, letting them know that Dick and Damian have left the frequency. 

Besides the bed crammed into the corner of the room and the small cooking area next to it, the apartment seem to be more of an office than a safehouse. Two desks are placed along the wall, each with a multitude of cords hanging from them and several laptops stacked on top of eachother. Without sparing Jason as much as a glance, Tim seats himself by one of them and pulls a laptop from the pile, bringing his right leg up to rest beneath him on the chair as he starts typing. 

The chair next to Tim’s creaks when Jason drops into it, leaning back under his weight, but Tim doesn’t show any sign of noticing. His eyes seem glued at the screen, and without his cowl the artificial light gives his skin a blue tint, enhancing the bags beneath his eyes. 

Jason’s hands work on their own when open his helmet and light one of his cigarettes, an action so familiar to them by now it doesn’t require him to take his eyes off Tim, and the first inhale feels like the first real breath of air he has tasted all day. 

“Do you have to do that now?” Tim’s small nose scrunches up, and he brings his hand up to cover the lower half of his face from the smoke, still with his attention firmly directed towards the document displayed on the laptop. 

Jason exhales again. One long, drawn out breath that sends the smoke curling around Tim’s thin fingers and his bony wrist, naked now that his gloves are resting on the desk in front of him. 

It makes Tim turn away, both from Jason and the screen. “Asshole,” he hisses, and Jason isn’t sure why that makes him smile. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of seeing Tim bothered, the usual calmness replaced by something less robotic. 

“Poor Timmy,” Jason can feel his smile shifting to a grin, the prospect of pushing Tim’s buttons seems a lot more amusing than spending the rest of the night just watching him work. “Stuck here with me, and the Son of Batman seems to be giving you a hard time too.” It probably isn’t a coincidence that Dick hovers like a protective presence over Tim during the rare occasions the four of them work together, and even if Tim doesn’t say anything, the slight furrow in his brow is still very noticeable. 

“And Bruce doesn’t seem to care much, right?” With a look of feigned surprise and a dramatic breath, Jason leans a little closer, angling his face in a more direct attempt to catch Tim’s attention. “Is he punishing you? Oh, you must’ve pissed him off mighty. It sure sucks not being the favourite anymore, right?” The smoke hits Tim’s cheek, hovering along his pale skin to right below his nose, where a sharp breath sucks it in. It’s satisfying, imagining how it’s going to stain the inside of his body and leave him just a little less perfect than he was an hour ago. 

“Let it go, Jason,” Tim says with his mouth barely moving, his narrow eyes intent on avoiding Jason’s and his fingers still tapping the keys in quick succession. It isn’t exactly anger, it’s much too controlled for that, but at least it’s something different than the silent compliance he displayed in the Cave.

“What? I’m just trying to get to know my new partner.” Jason’s grin grows bigger, showing all his yellowing teeth and the tip of his tongue drags along them. 

With a jagged motion that’s probably supposed to seem casual, Tim gestures between them, “I’m not playing this game. So stop wasting both of our time.” 

It’s funny. Both the way it looks, because with his body and head still turned towards the computer he looks like he’s trying to swat at an annoying fly, but also because of the mission.

“You say that like this isn’t already a waste of time.” Jason leans back in the chair, allowing the space between them to grow. He doesn’t actually expect Tim to answer, so when he does it makes his grin falter, just a little.

“Read the briefing again,” Tim says, “this thing has Falcone written all over it. If you think we’re wasting our time here, Dick thinks too highly of you.” It’s dismissive and poignant, but the way Tim refuses to look at him only fools Jason for a second. Such carefully chosen words don’t belong to someone who doesn’t care; they belong to someone who is starting to push back. 

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Jason urges and drops the cigarette butt on the floor beneath them. With a lazy motion he pulls out his gun, allowing it to rest heavy in his hand. Adrenaline surges from the familiar grip, cold steel against his palm, and it makes him feel twice as big, twice as bad. “I mean you’re probably right that he does,” he muses, grin stretching from one ear to the other, “I’m sure he doesn’t think I’d shoot you like this.” Jason angles the gun as he speaks, pointing the barrel of it in Tim’s direction, “but he doesn’t know me like you do.” _ It wouldn’t be the first time _ dances on the tip of his tongue, and maybe he’s imagining Tim’s left shoulder twitching, the one where Jason has already put a bullet. 

“I’m not scared of you,” Tim says, just too loud, stressing each word and letting his hands rest firmly on the desk in front of him. Without the sound of typing, the silence seems longer, heavier, and it urges Jason to lean just a little closer. His hand, holding the gun, hovers between them. It isn’t quite a threat, just a reminder, and an almost primal sense of satisfaction fills him when he suggests “maybe you should be.”

When Tim doesn’t answer, it cements Jason as the winner, and he laughs, dust whirring from the wheels of his chair as he slides it back and away from the desk. Bruce is going to tear him a new one when they get back to the cave, but seeing a crack in Tim’s perfect facade somehow makes it worth it. 

*

By the time they return to the cave, the sun is already rising. Save for his exchange with Tim during the beginning of the night, they spent the rest of it in silence, hearing nothing from Dick or Damian.

“Red Robin, report,” Bruce rubs his eyes while speaking, suppressing a yawn, and it makes him look almost human. There are at least five metres between him and Jason, meaning that if he tries to get physical when Tim tells him of Jason’s stunt with the gun, he should have enough of a headstart to get away. The only obstacle would be Cassandra, standing behind Jason and blocking the quickest route out of the Cave, but perhaps if he-

“Nothing to report.” 

Jason’s attention snaps from Bruce to Tim, who looks as serious and dull as if he spent the entire night alone. When Bruce turns to Dick, Jason manages to catch Tim’s attention and mouths: _ nothing? _ Tim obviously sees it, but doesn’t grant Jason as much as a shrug in return.

“What about the shipment, any trace of Falcone?” Bruce asks, unaware of the exchange behind his back, and Dick shakes his head, his mouth strained, void of the smile Jason has come to associate him with.  
“No, they scattered as soon as we got there.” With a slightly more triumphant expression, Dick holds his hand out towards Damian, who pulls something out of his utility belt and pushes into his palm. 

“At least we got this,” Dick declares as he passes it on to Bruce, who holds it up for the rest of them to see. It’s a phone, the cheap kind that can be bought in most corner stores. “I mean, it’s obviously a burner,” Dick continues, “but it might still have something we can use. We got it off the guy that seemed to be calling the shots.”

Bruce nods, giving the phone a quick once over before placing it on the keyboard of the main computer. “Oracle, see if you can get anything off of it.” 

Maybe Jason is imagining the collective sigh when the door closes behind Bruce, or maybe the air does get a little lighter, and the mood a little less pressed when Bruce isn’t staring them down like a general watching his troops.

“Dick, think you can ID the guys for me if we run through some of the files?” Tim takes a seat by the computer, disappearing out of sight behind the tall back of the chair, “there are probably prints on that thing, but it might save us some time if you got a good look at his face.”

Dick walks up beside him, resting a hand on what Jason guesses is Tim’s shoulder, “Yeah, of course.”

Cassandra has already slipped away, and Damian is heading the same way as Bruce, leaving Jason to stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor. Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he spins to head towards the door, turning his back on Tim and Dick where they huddle over the computer.

“So,” Dick’s voice is little more than a whisper, but it still carries over the cave. “How did it go with,” a pause, the kind of silence that means he’s nodding in Jason’s direction. “You two get along alright?”

Tim doesn’t reply right away, and Jason’s stomach falls a little more with each step he takes towards the door. Three more steps and he’s going to be outside of the cave.

Two more steps and he’ll never know Tim’s answer.

One more step.

The large, stone door slides open before him, and when Tim speaks it almost stops him in his step.

“Yeah, it was fine.” 

It’s pure force of will that keeps Jason from turning around and marching back into the Cave. It was _ fine _? Having a gun shoved in his face is really so unremarkable he doesn’t even care to mention it? As soon as the door slams shut behind him, Jason kicks the mountain wall with his steel toe boots. If he could, he would keep kicking it until the whole Manor came crumbling down, happily burying himself and Tim’s indifference beneath the rubble.

Not even smoking the rest of his pack on the balcony that night helps relax him. He’s still sweating profusely, heat blossoming from his chest and branching further across his body with each beat of his heart. 

In Jason’s dream that night he is alone. Standing in nothing but his underwear beneath a burning sun, the soles of his feet are on fire as flames surround him

Everything is red until he sees it, moving like a stream of muddy water across the dry savannah. Impossibly thick and long, the snake slithers along the ground at a terrifying speed. Even at the speed it’s moving, its beauty is breathtaking. Its body is a work of art, as if each scale has been meticulously carved and painted by God themselves.

Jason has had this dream a million times, and even if the snake is a new actor, they all end the same way. With his feet nailed to the ground, he is forced to just stand there as the snake approaches him. Heavy and warm against the back of his naked feet, it coils around his angles, and Jason waits for the bite. 

When that does not come, he waits instead for the snake to hug him tighter, until air and blood is cut off. 

When it that does not happen, he waits for death. Silent and soft like the touch of a former lover.

He waits.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are finally starting to happen!! thanks for sticking with this story, i honestly have so much respect for anyone who writes multi-chaptered fics without dying between posting each chapter. like bitch i finished writing the story before posting ch 1 and still i spend all week panicking lol

It keeps happening. Every mission outside of their regular patrols, and sometimes for those too, they are paired up. Jason expects to hate it, but Tim isn’t as talkative as Dick, which also means he isn’t quite as grating. And while Tim makes no secret that he expects to be the one in charge, he isn’t as viciously controlling as Bruce. A routine takes root and grows until it tangles Jason entirely, turning days to weeks, and one day he is getting ready for his patrol alone with a haunting feeling of unfamiliarity. Like he has forgotten something important. 

His hand moves to his earpiece, and he taps it to scroll through the frequencies. The one he settles on is silent, but he would be a coward if he let that discourage him.

“Hey, Tim,” he says, throat thick from not having spoken since last night, and the words have barely left his mouth before he hears the soft click of a mic unmuting itself. 

“Don’t use names on the comm.” Tim’s voice cracks up from the initial static.

“I’ll consider it,” Jason says, hating the tingle of excitement, “you busy?” 

“No, it’s fine.” Tim is typing, the clacking of keys loud enough to be heard even over the comm, and when neither of them speak it becomes even more prominent.

Heat caresses Jason’s finger, and he flicks the cigarette onto the ground. As he grinds it into the cold concrete floor he tries to find the words that will make him sound the least interested, the least needy, but his usually quick tongue appears to be twisting on itself.

In the end, Tim is the one to break the silence. “The comm isn’t a toy,” he says, as if Jason is a child that needs correcting.

But even after reprimanding him, Tim doesn’t mute himself, and he doesn’t leave the frequency. 

“So, did Bruce finally decide you’re a loose cannon? Is that why you’re not out?” Jason asks and Tim laughs. It’s a short sound that could easily have been mistaken for a cough, but still it drips like honey from Jason’s ears.

“I wish,” Tim says, “it’s just the case. You know the phone N and R brought back came up completely cold, right?” Jason doesn’t know, he hasn’t been reading the reports. Whatever information matters is always brought up at the briefings. But he hums anyway, and if he closes his eyes, it’s almost as if Tim is in the kitchen with him, perched on the counter with his fingers curling around the edge. “The prints on it match this Guillermo Diaz guy, but he’s got no ties to Falcone at all.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything, everyone is clean until they’re not.” 

“Yeah, but he’s like, _ clean _ clean. Here, listen to this,” Tim says and makes his voice a little deeper as he recites, “It is with utmost pride the Gotham University Department of Natural Science would like to present Mr Diaz with the Martha Wayne Award for Academic Excellence for his outstanding findings regarding the properties of egoline derivatives.” Jason makes a gagging sound, and Tim laughs as he falls back into his normal voice. “He’s even a TA. But honorable mentions do not a genius make, since he used his burner to call in sick that day. Completely useless to us, of course, but still embarrassing.” 

It’s probably the most Tim has ever spoken to him, like Jason finally figured out the magic word and now all of Tim is spilling out between them. He doesn’t even wait for Jason to answer, instead he goes on until his voice is strained and every word seems wrapped in frustration. “The thing is, the phone has these traces of narcotics on it. But they’re so tiny, when I tried to cross reference it to the old samples of Falcone’s drugs we’ve got in the lab, I got nothing. I’m running it against the GCPD database now, but I’m not exactly holding my breath.” 

“So, you just need a bigger sample?” 

“I guess so.” 

“But you’re too scrawny to get it yourself?” Jason grins, already mentally remapping the night’s route to bring him past the docks.

“If that makes you feel better about getting it for me.” Tim makes it sound so obvious, like it’s the only way this conversation could have ended, and it sends a shiver down Jason’s spine.

“Let me know how it goes,” Tim says before he disconnects, followed by a pause just the size of a breath, “don’t die. Red Robin out.” 

*

The air inside the warehouse is wet and heavy, and the moon casts a silvery light through the windows along the ceiling. Outside the rain is pouring, masking the sound of Jason’s step as he makes his way through it. When Dick and Damian were there, they reported at least ten people moving goods, but now it appears to be completely empty. The only thing showing that it is even in use are the stacks of crates left in the middle of the floor, and the familiar logo stamped on the side of each one of them. It’s the same distinct red circle that adorns most cigarette packs in Gotham, including the one he carries in his pocket.  
Whatever the Falcones might want to bring into the city, using a tobacco shipment to keep it away from prying eyes seems convenient enough to warrant him taking a closer look.  
It doesn’t take much force to break one of the crates open, and he shoves aside the top layer of neatly stacked packs only to reveal more of the same beneath them. He digs a little deeper, forcing his hand between the rows, but feels nothing besides soft carton. As he pulls out, his empty hand shines with disappointment, and in a quick motion he grabs one of the packs and shoves in his pocket. 

Besides the crates, the inner part of the warehouse is empty, just shelves upon shelves with nothing but stray pieces of plastic and torn-off shipping labels. The only thing that stands out in the sea of grey is a door with the word STORAGE printed on it, and its lock is basic enough that Jason doesn’t have to work it for long before it complies.  
As the door slides open, it reveals a small room that is filled to the brim with yellow barrels, each with a big, black skull printed on its side. Jason lets out a small whistle as he grabs one of the lids with both of his hands and forces it aside. It hits the ground with a loud bang, and exposes an inside full of liquid as black as the sky outside. Even through his helmet, the smell is invasive enough to make him cough, and he has to lean away from it as he taps the side of his helmet to fire up the comm.

“Hey, Tim,” his voice echoes against the barren walls, “I got you a gift.” 

Just like last time, Tim’s answer is immediate. “Tell me,” he demands, without the sound of typing or any distraction laced between his words, and the feeling of his undivided attention is far too good to give up without a fight.

“Say please,” Jason says, not caring if the smugness colours his voice.

“You found another sample.” 

The cupboard on the other side of the office is full of cleaning supplies, haphazardly thrown into a large pile, and Jason hums in confirmation while sifting through them. “I found something, at least,” he says, and settles for pouring some of the liquid into a small plastic bag. He allows it to settle for a couple of seconds, closely watching the plastic for any traces of deterioration at the touch of the unknown substance. When it remains intact, he puts it in the pocket of his jacket. 

“Bring it here,” Tim urges him, excited as if he can feel the electricity between them putting Jason’s hairs on end too. When Jason doesn’t immediately accept, he persists, “if you get it to me now rather than at the briefing, it’d save us an entire day.”

“In a hurry to wrap this up?” Something buzzes in Jason’s pocket, and when Tim’s name is displayed on the screen of his phone he reads it again and again.

“You should be too. I sent you the coordinates.” As if on cue, the typing from their earlier conversation resumes, and the tension settles as Tim’s attention drifts. 

*

The coordinates bring Jason to an area that is quieter than he thought Gotham could ever be at night, and when he takes his helmet off in front of the entrance the only distinguishable sound is the soft howling of the wind. He’s on the opposite side of the town from his own safehouse, closer to the Wayne Manor and Gotham Heights, and the house itself is tall, classical in its architecture and seemingly spared from graffiti and broken windows. It might actually be the only clean house in all of Gotham.

Perhaps it’s childish, the urge that washes over him upon seeing the house and it’s perfect surroundings. It really shouldn’t be so satisfying to throw his cigarette onto the ground right in front of the main door and watch the tiny sliver of smoke slowly pollute the perfect air that Tim must breathe. 

Tracing the smoke, his attention falls on a pile of something long and dark by the house wall, familiar in a way that makes his stomach turn. The thick body of a snake lies there, its scales just a shade darker than the concrete it rests against, and just barely lighter than the darkness that surrounds it. Unlike in his dream, it doesn’t seem to be looking at him, but rather resting its face along the ground with something sticking out of its open mouth. Jason only has to look for a second to recognize it as the wing of a bat, and with each rhythmic swallow it is pushed further into the snake’s throat, until all that remains of it is a large lump in the middle of its huddled body.

A car horn sounds, ripping Jason’s attention from the snake. He only looks away for a moment, but when he turns back towards it, there is nothing by the wall anymore. 

All the way up the stairs, Jason watches for it. Even as he bangs on the door, he looks over his shoulder in case it might slither from the shadows and attack him.

He has barely lowered his hand before the door slides open, and on the other side of it is Tim. 

It’s striking how different he looks out of the field, wearing a hoodie that is much too big for him and a pair of jeans than have a large tear on the inside of his left thigh, exposing a small sliver of pale skin between the flaps of distressed fabric. Even the way he moves is different as he shifts to the side to let Jason in, his back a little more hunched than usual. The only thing that’s the same is his tired expression, and the way his long fingers accentuate his held out hand.

“Here.” Jason pushes the plastic bag into Tim’s palm, and Tim holds it up between them. 

“What is it?” Tim asks, his eyes darting between Jason and the bag, and Jason shrugs.

Folders, newspapers, takeout boxes and coffee cups are occupying every visible inch of space in the apartment, and there is no way for Jason to even enter the hallway without stepping on at least one scattered piece of paper. The only sound comes from the tv, where a newscaster is reporting on the last of the violent attacks. 

On the small table in the middle of the room is equipment Jason recognizes from the Cave. Vials and glass trays with various contents scattered next to a laptop, and a Tim-sized piece of empty space on the couch right in front of it. 

“It’s not always like this,” Tim says as he moves across the floor towards it, using the back of his foot to push a food carton aside. He doesn’t even look at Jason when he speaks, far too occupied with pouring the contents of the bag onto one of the glass trays. 

Compared to the living room, what is visible of the kitchen through the doorway is spotless. The counter mirrors the translucent light, as if every inch of it has been meticulously scrubbed. The only trace of the room having been used at all is a small stain of dried coffee around the coffee maker, and an abandoned cup on the kitchen table. 

“It’s not a match.” Tim’s voice beckons him, and Jason walks up behind the couch to get a view of the laptop screen, where red letters are flashing.

“Oh, horror, what will the Great Detective do now?” Jason laughs as he hovers over Tim’s shoulder. This close, the small bumps along the back of Tim’s nose are even more prominent. There are at least three of them, each from a different fracture that has healed a little crookedly, and Jason imagines tracing his fingers along those obvious imperfections.

“Fuck off,” Tim groans and buries his face in his hands, long strands of hair hanging over his fingers. “We’re not getting anywhere like this.” His hands drag down along his face, stretching it as he speaks, and his attention shifts from the laptop to Jason. With his face turned, the tip of his nose almost touches Jason’s chin, and with each of his breaths, Jason’s skin becomes a little warmer. “We need to an in.” The cogs are spinning behind Tim’s narrowed eyes, tracing Jason as if he’s searching for something until suddenly, they light up. He turns his head back towards the laptop with such speed that it sends a sharp whiff of his cologne against Jason.

“I’m changing our route for tomorrow,” Tim says. Tomorrow is supposed to be another standard patrol, and the prospect of Tim somehow messing with the system to change that sends a little bolt of that familiar static through Jason. 

“Gee, what will daddy say?” Jason teases, but he can’t hide the excitement in his voice.

“He’s not my dad,” Tim answers before there has even been a breath of silence, as if the words are a mere reflex, “and he doesn’t have to know yet.”

Jason shifts on his feet, eager with the thought of what Tim might be like when he isn’t under Bruce’s watchful eye. “Whatever you say, princess. Where’re we going?”

“Frank Falcone.” When Tim smiles, visibly pleased with himself, it’s possible to hint his perfect teeth, small and sharp behind his thin lips. ”He doesn’t know we can’t tie them to it yet, and I’m sure you can be very persuasive.”

Jason’s answer gets stuck in his throat, tangled with the rapid beating of his heart and it’s suddenly painfully clear that if he stays any longer he’ll act before his mind has the chance to catch up.

“You’re leaving?” Tim says, and Jason forces himself not to pick apart his voice for traces of relief or disappointment. 

“You know Alfred would cry if he saw this place,” Jason says instead as he looks back, hand resting on the door handle. 

“Promise not to tell him.” This time when Tim smiles it’s softer, and in the damp lighting the tips of his ears look as pink as his lips. 

“I’ll take it to the grave.” Jason holds up his free hand in a mock pledge, and when Tim laughs at it something within him flutters. 

*

When Jason settles on the mattress lying on the floor on his safehouse, with no sheets and just a worn blanket to keep him warm, he tries to read. But what is usually a sacred routine and moment of rare tranquility does not let him rest from reality the way it usually does. Instead the words dance in front of his eyes, and he finds himself reading the same sentence over and over and over again. 

All he sees between the words is Tim’s neck, slender the way it was when he leaned over the laptop. Along the edges of the pages is the image of the bruised skin just above Tim’s collar, but below his jaw, that would stretch like the ripped fabric of his jeans, showing all the perfect cracks in his porcelain skin. 

Blood rushes from Jason’s head, further down until his breathing becomes heavy and the letters jumble before him. His nails leave little dents in the soft cover of the book, and when he shifts to put it away the bed shrieks as if the two of them are already tumbling in it. And when he lies on his back instead, tracing one of the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, it’s the same view as if Tim’s head was already between his legs. 

He drags his hand down along his abdomen, making goosebumps sprout across his skin and imagines the touch isn’t his own. 

He strokes himself. Hard and fast, while allowing the image of Tim’s pale thighs and narrow hips to reside in his mind. If he closes his eyes, it’s easy to remember the smell of Tim’s cologne, and even easier to imagine the feeling of his hair tangled in Jason’s fingers. He bucks his hips into his hand, and bites his own tongue to not contest with the fantasy of what sounds Tim would make beneath his touch. 

It’s so easy, and when he comes the bed shrieks again. His hand is warm and sticky, and if he never opens his eyes again, he doesn’t have to think about what that means. If he just remains like this forever, hidden in the darkness with the sheer idea of Tim still vivid in his mind, it doesn’t have to mean anything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the shortest chapter, and it was definitely the trickiest one to write. im kind of wishing i just posted the whole thing at once by now, because having to reread every chapter in order to edit before posting is honestly super painful lol. anyways i hope you enjoy it and thanks for sticking around <3

When Jason arrives at the rooftop above Tony’s Bar the next day, Tim is already waiting for him. Against the Gotham skyline, leaning on his bo staff as he observes the alley beneath them, he looks more like Batman than like himself. 

The image of him from last night is still vivid, still burning in the back of Jason’s mind, but at least when Tim is wearing his cowl it’s easy to imagine him as something else. 

They wait in silence, watching the empty alley below them until two men, with matching red hair stumble around the corner. Tim leans closer at the sight of them, shifting the hold of his staff.

“One of them’s our guy?” Jason flicks away his cigarette and pulls the helmet back over his head. The men’s voices are loud enough to carry over the rooftops, arguing over something that is lost among their drunken slurs. 

“I sent you a brief,” Tim says, without taking his eyes off them.

“Sorry, I can’t read,” Jason shrugs, grateful that his mask is hiding what he’s sure is a very sheepish smile.

“Diego and Paolo Rossi, newly initiated, still just doing legwork for Falcone. Tonight they’re guarding the entrance.” Probably quoting the brief word by word, Tim sounds like he’s reading straight off a list. “They’re not our guy,” Tim points his staff at one of the windows in the building opposite them. The blinds are shut, but a small light shines through a crack at the bottom. “But he’s in there. Two stairs, third door on the left.” 

When Tim stretches, the staff looks like an extension of his arm. Every angle of his body is sharp and precise, the tight fit of his uniform showing the firm contours of kevlar and muscle.

“And all I gotta do is make him sing?” Jason waits for the correction, for Tim to point out that it’s a stealth mission more than anything, but it doesn’t come. 

“Ready?” He says instead, and Jason does a playful salute before the two of them drop down. 

They land behind the two brothers, just as they are approaching the delivery entrance, and Jason immediately throws himself at the bigger one of them. Diego Rossi’s back is practically a wall, making him near impossible to miss. Despite his size, one well aimed kick hitting his spine is enough to force him onto the ground, gasping for air between howls of pain. Jason straddles his back, grabbing him by the hair and pushing his face against the concrete to muffle any sounds of pain. It doesn’t do much, and when Diego continues to wail Jason unholsters one of his guns and pushes the muzzle of it against Diego’s cheek. “You better stay really fucking quiet,” he hisses, leaning as close as he dares without losing his balance. 

Perhaps his weight makes it difficult for Diego to breathe, or perhaps Diego really is new enough to still be spooked by having a gun shoved in his face. Regardless of which, he stops moving, and Jason uses the opening to turn his attention towards Tim.

While fighting, Tim and Paolo have moved even closer to the door, which means Jason can’t assist him without leaving Diego unattended. Not that Tim appears to be in need of any help. Every move he makes seems to predict Paolo’s drunken punches and counter them while setting up strikes of his own. Violence isn’t supposed to have a beauty to it, but Tim looks as if he has practiced the art of it his entire life. 

Suddenly, a third shadow appears behind Tim, and when the knife pierces his throat, blood gushes from it over Tim’s chest and spills onto his black boots. 

Jason’s body moves, and the trigger doesn’t make a sound when he presses it. Neither does the bullet. Or the body when it hits the ground. 

Someone screams, but it isn’t Tim, because the chaos has given him an opening. After the hit, Paolo’s jaw doesn’t look like it’s attached to his face anymore, and another blunt hit to the back of his head sends him falling face-first against the ground. He lands with a loud _ crack _, and lets out a gurgling noise as blood spills from his mouth and stains his chin.

The wall behind Tim is red, and there is blood on the left side of his face, but his throat is clean. 

“Why did you do that?” He breathes, and neither of them moves. 

“I saved your life,” Jason says, a little louder than he intends. 

Tim’s mouth is nothing but a sharp line. “No, you didn’t, I had it under control.” 

“Bullshit,” Jason’s legs shake beneath him as he gets up. The body behind Tim isn’t moving, but beside is a large knife, blade sharp and impossibly clean. “He fucking cut you, I saw it.” The sight of it is still vivid in his mind, how Tim’s mouth stretched in a scream of agony as the blade pierced his collar and the skin beneath it. It’s more real than all of Jason’s memories, every other experience turning pale beside it. “And it’s not like I brought these just for show,” he aims the gun at Tim’s empty expression, at his crooked nose. “you can’t keep a rabid dog on a leash and get surprised when it bites.” He’s screaming now, pressing the barrel of the gun against Tim’s chest.

“Get that out of my fucking face.” Tim shoves at Jason’s arm, and Jason pushes back, digging the muzzle deeper into the kevlar. It makes Tim take a step back, a small dent visible in his uniform where the gun used to be. “I can’t believe this,” he says, and with each moment his emotions seem to spill over the layers upon layers of restraint . “You’re so fucking reckless.” Like venom, the words drip between his perfect teeth and Jason tries not to imagine what it might be like to drag his tongue along them. 

“Don’t follow me,” Tim says, and within a moment he is gone.

There are still enough bullets in Jason’s guns to kill every single person in the building. He could wipe a branch off of the Falcone family tree within minutes, and probably end the violent attacks that Bruce has tried and failed to stop for weeks.

But he doesn’t. 

Because between him and the door is the snake, thick as his arm, and long enough that its tail is still curled around the corner of the building. It raises its head, and the rest of its body follows, baring an underside the same colour as bone until it’s stretched tall enough to reach Jason up to his neck. When it hisses, the dark tongue flickers and within the void that is its mouth two large fangs protrude. 

There is a slapping sound as it lashes out against him, its heavy body whipping against the ground, and Jason swats against it on sheer instinct. When he doesn’t hit anything but air, his stomach plummets, and he forces his eyes shut as he braces for impact. 

An impact which does not come. 

When he opens his eyes again, the snake isn’t there. It’s just him, alone with his heart beating furiously and the Rossi brothers lying face down on the ground. Diego wriggles a little, a groan escaping his huge figure, and Jason doesn’t take a breath between aiming his gun at Diego’s leg and shooting. 

The sharp noise echoes in the alley, and Jason hopes Tim hears it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh we're almost at the end, thanks for sticking around <3

Jason doesn’t bother going to the cave the next day. If Bruce is going to tear him open because he made a necessary call, he isn’t going to make his job easier by showing up at his doorstep.

Instead he huddles in his safe house, back against the wall and working his way through the pack of cigarettes he picked up during his outing to the docks. His helmet stares at him from where it’s perched atop the kitchen counter, shining like a beacon of red light against the rest of the filthy apartment.

When he puts it on to patrol, it’s as if he sees the world through a filter. The colours are distorted, and the software tells him exactly where to focus, where Red Hood needs to be tonight.

Red Hood stops an assault in a part of town he usually just passes through on his way back to the Narrows. As he pries a screaming woman off of her victim she kicks into the air with her tall heels. “She’s going to kill me!” She screams between panicked breaths and rips her tailored jacket while flailing. 

Another woman is curled up on the ground in front of them, still weeping from the beating she has taken. Her face looks swollen through the strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail, and two scratches seem to run from her forehead to her chin, deep and red. 

Jason still has his comm; it’s waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he gets back, right next to where he puts his helmet. If Tim is still working the case, he might be interested in knowing the details of another assault. But just the motion of bringing the earpiece to his ear makes him nauseous, and when he touches the wheel to find the right frequency the thought of Tim actually answering is enough to make him tear it out again. It bounces against the floor, rolls further and further away from him until it settles against the wall. 

Above it, along the window sill rests the snake with its long tail trailing along the outside of the glass in the shape of a hook. It watches him, and he watches it back. There are no snakes like it in America, even less in Gotham, and yet it has somehow followed him him eight stories up. 

Its eyes are so big, so dark, and its tongue flickers with each of its hissing breaths. 

Jason takes a step towards it, and it raises its head. 

Another step, the tail flickers against the glass.

With the third step he puts himself within the snake’s reach, and the snake within his. He moves to grab it by its thick neck, but it stretches out of his grasp. It tower over him for a second, and he tries again. Once more it escapes him, its heavy body weighing on the edge of the window. Jason lunges for it, throws his entire body against it and when he hits the window the snake slides off.  
It’s only visible for a second as it falls through the air before it’s swallowed by the darkness. 

There is no sound of impact, no screams from any of the passerbys, no car alarm that goes off. Just silence and the cold breeze, stroking Jason’s stretched out arms.

It’s Thursday when Jason’s phone lights up, buzzing innocently on the counter and bumping against the helmet. 

_ Busy? _ the new message reads, right below the coordinates to Tim’s apartment, sent over a week ago. 

_ Yes. _It only takes Jason a moment to reply, quick enough that both messages carry the same time stamp.

_ It’s not Falcone. _As if Jason wants an update on a case he isn’t working on. 

_ Ok _ , he replies and honestly, truthfully, with every ounce of his being means to chuck the phone out of the window the moment he presses send. But fate is quicker, and a small ellipse appears below his message, three dots bouncing within it.

It disappears.

It reappears.

And it buzzes, the vibrations moving from his palm to his chest.

_ You should come over _

It’s so easy to imagine Tim hunched over his phone, lean fingers tapping the screen and hair covering his eyes. Jason doesn’t answer. He just grabs his helmet and heads out.

*

As soon as the door is within Jason’s sight, it opens, and when he steps inside Tim immediately slides behind him, leaning his back against the door to close it.

“Hey,” Jason says.

“Hey,” Tim answers. He’s wearing a T-shirt this time, and while he’s hiding his naked arms behind his back, the lower part of a bandage is still visible beneath his left sleeve.

“You been patrolling alone?” They’re so close, if Jason took a step closer his chin might touch Tim’s nose. 

“Yeah, my partner kinda ditched me.” Tim’s neck stretches as he relaxes his head against the door.

“Sounds like an asshole.” There is no wound where the knife should have struck him. No scar. Just perfect skin. 

“Really? Don’t let him hear you say that.” The corner of Tim’s mouth quirks into a mischievous smile and the sight of it kickstarts Jason’s heartbeat, loud enough to drench out any thoughts except how the collar of Tim’s shirt droops a little.

“Why?” Jason’s mouth is dry and there’s a tapping sound, fingertips against wood. “Don’t you think I could take him?” 

When Tim shrugs, the thin fabric of his shirt drapes over the shallow bones of his shoulders. “He’s a pretty big guy,” he says, and then something else, interruped by the large head of a snake protruding from his mouth. Its body is so thick, it stretches Tim’s lips and throat until they almost rip. It should make him gasp for air as it forces its way out of him, but Tim does nothing. He just leans against the door until the snake obscures him completely, its glassy eyes staring at Jason as it remains perfectly still. 

This time it’s Jason who leans closer.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says, but it’s as if he’s watching it happen, as if his voice is detached from his body.

“Maybe you should be.” It’s the snake’s split tongue, flickering alongside its dark flesh, but it’s Tim’s voice, level and close. “Why haven’t you been to the briefings?” It asks, and Jason blinks. 

The snake is gone. Left is just Tim’s smile, pointed teeth peeking out beneath his upper lip. 

“Pretty sure that was a one-strike-and-you’re-out kinda deal,” Jason says and with just one step he closes the distance between them.

“It probably is,” Tim says, and hooks his finger into one pockets of Jason’s jeans, letting his other hand rest against Jason’s hip. 

When they kiss, Jason almost expects Tim’s tongue to be split, or for the snake to slither into his own mouth and down his throat. But it isn’t, and it doesn’t, and when he presses closer Tim’s body is warm and human.

“You taste like ash,” Tim says, wrinkling his nose, but his body is still close enough that Jason can feel it shift against him. 

“Falcone’s treat.” Jason’s hands find their way under Tim’s shirt, along the curve of his waist and Tim leans into the touch with a questioning hum. “From the warehouse,” Jason says, and stringing the words together grows more difficult with each second, “when I was getting the thing, you know.”

“Then it’s not Falcone,” Tim says, and Jason pulls him into a kiss just to shut him up. 

“I really don’t care,” he breathes, and Tim smiles against his lips, taking the hint. 

Tim’s bed isn’t made, and when they fall onto it Jason has to push some scattered pieces of clothing aside. He recognises the jeans with the tear, and wishes he could tattoo the sight of them as a pile on the bedroom floor onto the back of his eyelids.

“Come here.” Tim pulls at his shirt, and his hands are so much more eager than Jason has ever dared to imagine. 

Jason drags his tongue along one of Tim’s perfect fingers, and takes it into his mouth. Satisfaction tastes as sweet as the bones when Tim’s mouth falls open. There are no cogs spinning behind his foggy eyes now, and want prickles Jason’s skin at the sight of him. 

Jason touches Tim through his trainers, palming the proof that good things can still happen to bad people, and a muffled moan presses against his lips. The fabric of Tim’s shirt sticks against Jason’s lips as he trails kisses along Tim’s chest, further down until he’s able to drag his tongue along the narrow patch of skin between the trainers’ hem and the ruffled bottom of the shirt. 

Hands are in his hair, pulling at it and pushing him just an inch further down. Beneath the trainers, Tim’s hip bones stand like two tall mountains, marking the beginning and end of a deep valley, and Jason buries his face between them. For a blissful minute, he hears nothing but Tim and the way his breaths clasp for Jason’s name. Surely there can be no other thought in his mind at this moment other than the feeling of Jason swallowing him down.

Tim doesn’t scream when he comes. He just fists Jason’s hair hard enough for it to hurt and nothing but a sharp breath escapes his clenched teeth. 

The only thing wrong with the perfect picture of Tim in his haze, with his chest heaving with each breath and his hair standing on end, is that he’s still fully dressed. Next time, because Jason might die if he can’t have this again, he’ll take his time. 

Tim hesitates, mouth hovering just above where it needs to be. If Jason pushes his hips up, he’ll push those lips apart so easily, and he’s just about to do it when Tim finally lowers his head. Jason curses, says _ fuck _ and _ shit _ and _ hell _and every other profanity he can think of.

When his body starts to tense, Tim takes him out of his mouth and into his hand. Any disappointment fades into the orgasm, and Jason spills more on his own stomach than on Tim, whose slender fingers remain wrapped around him as he comes.

Through the darkness the numbers 2:37 shine next to the bed. They cast their red light on Tim’s face, framing his profile and colouring the whites of his eyes pink. 

At 2:46 he still hasn’t closed them, staring at the ceiling above them like there is something written on it.

“Stop thinking,” Jason says, and brings his hand up cover Tim’s eyes, to pull him back into the darkness.

“I can't.” Even though his lips are still slightly swollen and his voice a little hoarse, he’s already far from the Tim Jason had pinned beneath him. How can the fingers that wrap around Jason’s wrist now to pull his hand away be the same ones he kissed with such devotion just minutes ago? 

“Maybe you should sleep on it,” he says, and imagines it is fondness that makes Tim squeeze his wrist. 

When Jason wakes up, the room is still dark. Through blurred vision he makes out 4:22 in the now familiar red light, which means they’ve got at least two hours before they have to deal with the implications of whatever this is. It’s more than enough time to pretend once more, but when he reaches out towards the other end of the bed, expecting to wrap it around Tim’s warm body, it hits nothing but the cold sheets. 

The pleasant drowsiness runs off him like cold water, and his mind supplies a hundred reasons for Tim’s absence, each worse than the other. He sits up and in a moment of stillness a familiar sound penetrates the thin walls. The tapping of keys, like flames sizzling before they die. How could Tim be anywhere else? 

Jason turns on the small lamp on the bedpost and in its damp light his jacket looks like a menacing shadow, crawling across the floor towards the bed. Its pockets aren’t very deep, and when he digs through them in search of his cigarettes, he finds nothing.  
He checks beneath the piles of clothes, beneath the jeans with the tear, and even gets on his knees to look beneath the bed in his search for the pack that must have fallen out of his pocket. 

Unless the floor has swallowed it, it isn’t in the bedroom. Which leaves the hallway, and the impromptu path between papers and case files they stumbled along last night on their way to the bedroom. 

The typing doesn’t stop when he enters the living room, where the scent of coffee still lingers. Tim is on the couch, and the light from the laptop screen is like a veil across his face, tinting his hair blue. On the table in front of him is a new stack of files, with their contents scattered on top of previous leads, and in the at the top of it all is a pack of cigarettes. 

“Don’t tell me those are mine,” Jason says, and Tim twitches in surprise. 

“Yeah, I needed a sample.” Tim doesn’t look up, too focused on the screen. Someone should shoot him. Someone should put a gun against his temple and push the trigger because it’s the only way he’ll learn.

“You took them from my pocket.” It’s not a question, and Tim doesn’t answer. His jaw just straightens, his lips grow a little thinner and it’s impossible not to think about how two hours ago Jason was planting kisses along that very same jawline, pushing his tongue between those lips. “What’s your fucking problem?” Jason says, voice a little louder this time, as he swipes the pack off the table. “Why can’t you act like a normal person for once?”

“I just borrowed them. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” Through the arch of his back, Tim is visibly tense, like cold water is running down his spine.

“Yeah, well, that says a fucking lot, don’t you think?” Jason says and Tim pushes the laptop away, looking like he did that first night, when Jason was still stealing glances of him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Tim says, “we should have left hours ago.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jason throws his hands up in disbelief, and it provokes Tim to the extent that he actually gets up, standing between the table and couch with his arms crossed. “You won’t even tell me, like, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” Jason says, not even trying to hold his tongue anymore. ”This whole leading me on and then acting like I’m air-thing. If you don’t care, don’t fucking bother at all.” It’s almost cathartic, finally putting Tim back in his place.

“Twelve people have already died,” Tim takes a step forward, putting them close enough that their chests almost touch. “If I don’t work this case, you think it’s getting solved anytime soon? And you think I’d invite you over if I didn’t care? I should’ve left hours ago.” He gestures at the laptop and the way he cuts himself off indicates that perhaps there is more to that sentence, another treasure hidden beneath another layer. “You’re not stupid,” he says, and for the first time his eyes avert from Jason’s out of something that isn't boredom, his arms falling to his sides. “So why’re you acting like it?” 

He looks tired, and it isn’t fair how even now, with his greasy hair tied up and something that looks like coffee staining his shirt, just seeing him makes Jason’s heart race. 

“I’m sorry.” When Tim says it, his mouth moves carefully, as if it isn’t quite sure what shape to make to make the words come out, his eyes remaining fixed on a point just below Jason’s neck.

“You’re what now?” If Jason’s heart was racing before, it’s almost bursting now, anger and excitement melding into something that feels as natural as air.

“Sorry.” It’s quicker this time, quieter, and Tim’s eyes drift towards something behind Jason, probably the clock. 

“Say it again,” Jason knows he’s smiling, but he doesn’t care, because when Tim rolls his eyes he’s looking straight at Jason. 

“Please, come with me,” Tim says, like he knows he's already won, and when the corner of his mouth quirks up in a cat’s smile there is no way Jason would refuse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know when u have an idea, and its the idea that basically sparks the entire fic, but then you realise that the idea itself is the weakest point and doesn't make any sense and should probably be edited out? thats me with the snake in tim's mouth lol. i went back and forth about keeping it or not but then i figured its my story and i want surreal imagery so i'm keeping it in!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter!! thanks for sticking around and giving my odd characterization choices a chance. i was super scared in the beginning about posting this, but you guys have been so incredibly sweet about it. more rambly notes at the end etc

The Gothic architecture of Gotham University stands in stark contrast with the sleek office buildings surrounding it. Its numerous towers and large windows are reminiscent of the Manor, especially with the greenery covering the school grounds. In the early hours of the morning it’s still empty, but within hours it will be filled with the Gotham elite, a small island of wealth in a city otherwise rotten. Tim would probably fit perfectly among them, as natural a part of the university as the books on the shelves.

“Did you study here?” Jason asks while he reaches for the large indent in the wall above him, where Tim’s foot was resting just moments ago. From below he can’t see Tim’s face, but he hears something that sounds a little like a laugh. 

“No,” Tim says as the window swings open under his touch, and with a swift motion he throws his legs over the windowsill and disappears into the building. 

Jason follows, and his boots hit the carpet with a soft thud. The lights are off, but even in the darkness he can make out the contour of Tim further down the hallway. 

“Why?” He asks, even though it doesn’t matter. 

Tim’s cape makes a little sound when he shrugs. “It was my backup school,” he says, and disappears around the corner. As Jason follows him they pass through the hallway and into the dimly lit library, where the tall shelves cast long shadows. 

He walks along them, from Aristotle to Dickens to Shakespeare, all the way to the corner of the room where Tim stands in front of a door left ajar. Tim brings a finger to his lips and through the small opening Jason can just barely make out someone’s back, as if a tall figure is slouching, leaning over something.

All it takes is a nudge with the edge of Tim’s staff, and the door slides open. Tim takes a step towards the figure, and it startles.

“Mr Diaz, is that you?” The figure, a man, says, like an elderly greeting his caretaker.

“Not quite. Time to wrap this up, Crane. Arkham misses you.” At the sound of Tim’s voice, Jonathan Crane flies out of the chair and backs up against the desk in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and Tim as he can in the small room. His motions are awkward, as if his limbs are too long for his body, and in his panic he pushes over a pile of papers that scatter on the floor between them. 

Between the sheets of paper, bathing in the yellow light of the old reading lamp, are not one, not two, but three large snakes. Tim doesn’t seem to care, and there is no telling if it’s luck that saves his ankles as he makes his way towards Crane.

The hissing is so loud, it’s impossible to distinguish what Tim is saying, and Jason has no choice but to take a step back when they move towards him. He tries to scream, because Tim is too focused on Crane to notice, but the sound gets stuck in his throat and when he falls against the floor nothing but a sharp breath escapes him. The helmet catches most of the impact, but no matter how much he wrangles he can’t escape the thick bodies wrapping around his limbs and weighing him down. Within moments he’s unable to feel his legs, and his arms are pulsating as the circulation is cut off in them as well.

Through the wetness of his eyes, he sees Tim turn around in surprise, and in that same moment Crane towers behind him. Jason tries to reach for his gun, but his arm refuses to move, and all he can do is watch as Crane catches Tim’s head and pushes a rag against his mouth.

Jason expects Tim’s body to give in under its weight, but when the rag falls to the floor it doesn’t expose the slack jaw of someone who has breathed chloroform. Instead Tim screams, shrill and loud, without any of his natural composure. The sight of him, falling to his knees while panic surges through his body, makes Jason want to scream as well, but as the grip around his throat tightens he can barely breathe, much less make a sound. Wheezing, he claws at his throat in an attempt to pry the snake away, but his fingers slide through its body like water.

“Look at you,” Crane’s head turns like an owl, his deep seated eyes latching onto Jason. His long legs carry him over Tim’s shaking body and across the room until he’s close enough to crouch down beside Jason. “You didn’t even need the toxin,” he says, and their faces are so close Crane’s nose almost touches the helmet as he studies Jason closer. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re part of the sample group.” A wide smile stretches across Crane’s bony features, showing off each of his crooked teeth. “Absolutely fascinating. Did something get your heartrate going? Tell me, what do you see?” 

Tim is still screaming, and with each forced breath Jason’s vision grows blurrier.

For a moment everything is still, until through the haze Crane is pulled away, dragged onto his feet by the back of his collar by someone, or something, dressed in black. 

It isn’t Batman, the person is far too small and far too fast as they duck Crane’s flailing arms and lands a punch at the base of his neck. 

Pain pierces the fog, and even though the voice telling Jason to get up is little more than a whisper, he recognizes it and when Cass’ stretched out hand appears before his eyes, he takes it. The snakes don’t hold him back, as if they have already slid off of him, and his numb legs are just barely able to carry him to Tim’s shivering body before they fold beneath him. 

Tim’s face is buried in his hands, and his screams have mellowed to a manic mumbling, but when Cass appears beside him, and when she presses the needle of a small syringe between the padding of his sleeve, he whimpers in pain. 

*

With the worn blanket covering everything except Tim’s head, it’s impossible to tell if he’s even breathing anymore. He’s been curled up on Jason’s mattress for hours, eyes closed and completely silent. The only thing indicating that he isn’t just a sack of something dead is the occasional twitching, as well as the vivid red of his uniform, lying in a pile on the floor next to him.

When Jason sits down on the edge of the mattress, just inches from Tim’s feet, he breathes out for the first time in what feels like a month. 

“How did Cass know we were there?” He asks, because he wants to hear Tim say it. And to his surprise Tim actually answers, still hoarse from crying.

“I told her.” 

“Why?” Jason almost stumbles on the word, keeping his eyes fixed on the patch of uneven paint on the wall opposite them. 

“Someone had to bring the antidote,” Tim says.

Could Crane really have been hiding there for months, using his toxin to make people turn on each other? Jason remembers the screaming woman, how strong the adrenaline had made her, and how she had been impossible to contact through her desperation. Like someone facing their worst nightmare. 

“That Guillermo guy didn’t actually use his burner to call in sick, right?” Jason says, recalling the confidence in Tim’s voice, how he had dropped the information as if it was as solid as the results from the lab.

“Probably not.” A pause, as if Tim considers leaving it at that but can’t bring himself to. “It was an educated guess,” he adds with a huff, “he was in their records, and he didn’t attend the class that day.”

It should be infuriating, but what boils within Jason isn’t rage, and when it mixes with the haze of relief from a case closed, he doesn’t want to fight. What he does want, is to smoke. 

The first drag is heaven, but he barely closes his eyes before he is brought back to reality by a kick to his hip. Even though Tim isn’t wearing his boots, courtesy of Jason helping him take them off when Tim’s hands were shaking too much to untie the laces, the impact is still hard enough to make Jason wince. 

“Are you actually stupid?” Tim’s face is still puffy, and when he looks up from his bundle of blanket Jason can hint his T-shirt just below the edge of it. He seems genuinely upset, but if there is one moment when Jason deserves to smoke, all negatives side effects aside, it’s now. So he just raises his brow and takes another drag.   
“Or maybe you just enjoy microdosing,” Tim hisses, “maybe you like being part of his sample group.” 

The pleasant burn in Jason’s throat suddenly turns menacing at the reminder of Crane’s words, as if something is crawling within his body, and the cigarette falls from his fingers. The warmth travels up his neck, over his cheeks and spills like venom from his tongue.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been crying on the floor, I’d have paid more attention to what that psycho was saying.” This time he’s ready when Tim’s foot moves towards him, and he grabs him by the ankle. The muscles beneath his fingers are solid, condensed within something so thin that his fingers almost overlap.

“Well, if you hadn’t fallen over yourself-,” Tim says with gritted teeth, and with a quick, determined motion he pulls his foot out of Jason’s grasp. “Whatever, It doesn’t even matter. My point is, change your brand until we know how many shipments they tampered with. Or do something smart for once and quit that shit.” 

It’s like a mirror of their first mission with each of Tim’s layers finally stripped away, and where there used to be perfection irregularities have sprouted.

They sink deeper into the mattress when Jason climbs on top of Tim, with one hand on each side of Tim’s head and the feeling of his chest rising and falling against Jason’s.

The blanket is still draped over most of Tim’s body, but when he shifts to push it onto the floor he’s left with nothing but a t-shirt and his underwear, long legs naked and sprawling beneath Jason. And as much as Jason wishes to relish in the sight, the sliver of exposed skin at the top of Tim’s hip has him more intrigued.

He slides his hands beneath the shirt, and Tim’s skin is cold against his palms. With touch alone it’s impossible to distinguish the scars from the goosebumps, and it’s as good of a reason as any to bring his hands further up Tim’s torso, bringing the shirt with them. Tim arches his back, and the shirt slides off with such ease as Jason continues to traces his hands along Tim’s stretched up arms. 

Across Tim’s naked chest are countless scars, laced between fresher wounds and blossoming bruises. Jason presses his lips against a patch of purple skin and Tim twitches, bringing his arms up to rest across his face. It exposes the backsides his upper arms and their untouched skin, where not even the sun has kissed him. 

Perhaps Jason’s calloused hands are the first to touch him there. Even under the hardened skin of his fingertips, it’s impossibly smooth and soft, and Tim immediately starts to squirm beneath his touch. 

“It tickles,” he says, and his smile is the only thing not covered by his arms.

“Sorry,” Jason says, but he isn’t. How could he be, when all he’s breathing is Tim’s cologne and when each movement Tim makes beneath him just reminds him of how close they are. 

“You’re not,” Tim says, as if he can read minds, and when he wraps his legs around Jason’s waist his hands are playful in their touch.

When they move, it’s as if all those things that set them apart suddenly bring them together. Like a perfect balance, achieved only when both of them push, pull, and remain perfectly still.

Afterwards, when they are breathing together and their bodies are pressed close in the moments after release, the silence doesn’t settle like Jason expects it to.

“I don’t think you should work with us,” Tim says as he turns on his side, skin almost translucent against the mattress. 

“I don’t think you need to worry about that since the, you know.” Jason waves his fingers in a mockful impression of a gun in front of Tim’s face. It’s funny, he does it to remind Tim of the excessive violence in the alley, but maybe it reminds him more of their first mission together too.

“I didn’t tell him about that,” Tim says, and Jason doesn’t need to ask who He is, is barely able to speak through the sudden dryness in his mouth.

“Why not?” 

“I can’t be your conscience,” Tim says, like it’s nothing, and Jason tries to imagine the briefing, the report Tim probably had to write. He imagines Tim lying to Bruce, twisting the truth and hiding it beneath his layers, and the place where Jason’s guilt should be feels hollow and warm. 

“I want you to be,” Jason says, and he knows he’s grinning, tracing his fingers along Tim’s cheekbones, dipping them into the hollow of his cheeks. 

“That’s because you’re the worst.” Tim shakes his head and even in this moment, with everything else stripped away, Jason still can’t tell if Tim is joking or not. Would Tim let the worst person inside of himself, like he had let Jason inside just minutes ago? He wants so desperately to ask, but he knows that there is no answer that will satisfy him.

“I’ll have to go underground when he finds out,” he says instead, and rubs the small scar above Tim’s cupid’s bow; the one that’s only visible to touch.

At first Tim doesn’t say anything, and Jason’s finger travels towards the corner of Tim’s lips; the one that quirks upwards when he’s pleased with himself. 

“I’ll be here,” Tim says, pressing a soft kiss against Jason’s finger and at the touch Jason knows that he would shoot those men again, again and again, if it meant he would end up here.

“You’ll be here.” 

“Yeah.” It’s just short of a breath. A whisper. A confession. 

Tim kisses him, and it’s natural, like no matter what they do they will always end up exactly like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl im kind of happy this story is finally all done. even though i finished writing it before posting the first chapter i haven't really felt like i can properly let it go while still posting chapters lol. but yeah i learned so much writing it and im happy to contribute to the jaytim bank but like MAN is there a lot i'd do different if i were to write it again. I'm working on another jaytim story now that's completely different tho so please look forward to that if you found this at least somewhat readable. <3


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